It was Agnes Garfield, though not as pretty in pixelvision as she was in the ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN? ’ posters. ‘Damnit, you’ve got to let it heal!’ She slapped him hard enough to make his sunglasses fly off. ‘Bastard!’ And then she was off, shoving out of the booth and stomping out of shot.

Silence. Then the guy picked up his glasses and hurried after her. ‘Rowan, please, come on, I didn’t mean it. . .’ Everyone else laughed.

Dan pressed stop, then put the phone away. ‘Only just had it pierced.’

‘And that was a regular occurrence.’

‘At least twice a week. She’s a great girl. Bit screwed up, but she completely dotes on him – even though he treats her like crap. Screwing around behind her back, pissed and stoned all the time, telling her it’s her fault and she makes him do it. And she just takes it, forgives him, lets him get away with it.’ Dan fiddled with the big hole in his ear. ‘You know what happened on Valentine’s Day? He made her get his name tattooed on her thigh. I mean, tattoos are cool and everything, but he was just marking his territory, right? Can you believe that? Wanker.’ Dan coiled one hand into a fist. ‘But she doesn’t see it, you can’t talk to her any more. . .’

Logan took a sip of his water. ‘So you fought.’

‘Yeah. . .’ Dan opened his mouth, stuck a finger under his top lip and lifted, showing off a gap where a tooth should have been. ‘Got in a couple of decent punches, but Ton’s like a bloody ninja, isn’t he? ’

‘And let me guess, Agnes wasn’t exactly grateful you’d stood up for her? ’

‘Came round that night and kneed me in the nads.’ He looked off down the bar, where a pair of huge women were bellowing out Sid James laughs, cleavage all a-wobble. ‘How could she let him treat her like that, you know? I would’ve looked after her. . .’

‘. . .at it like, I dunno, just arguments and fights and that.’ Clive McWilliams took a long drag on his cigarette, then oozed it out in a slow breath. Smoke curled in the thick moustache and ludicrously long goatee beard. He couldn’t have been much older than nineteen, but he had the facial hair of a Victorian industrialist. The muscle shirt was smeared with blood, as was the black apron and the white wellington boots. ‘She just . . . you know, gets under his skin.’

‘And he beats her.’

‘Nah, it was never physical, they’re just that kind of couple. Like to fight. Like to make up. Course, I wouldn’t blame him if he gave her a slap now and then: she won’t shut up sometimes. Other times she just sits there staring at him like he’s Jesus or something. You know? ’